But the circle was widening, leaving the killer all the space he needed to take off, scattering the bystanders like bowling pins. Shit. That meant I had to chase him again. This time we wove around the last of the square traffic and burst onto an open rode.
An open road was preferable, maybe. At least I knew the basic rules of paved roads with cars and traffic, not that we followed any rules. The killer was swerving onto sidewalks or sandy shoulders any time the traffic backed up, which meant I had to do the same. I would have loved to blow out his back tire but who says you can shoot a gun while riding a bike?
At some point, he took off across a park along paved paths lined with rose borders and tall palms before diving back onto the road. He traveled at a good clip now, me following close behind, but his driving was crazy—nearly hitting a bench and ramming into a tree later. Once we dove through a date grove, which almost unseated me as we bumped along. He knew where he was going, I didn’t, but the streetlights helped. I was so intent on keeping up that I was barely paying attention to anything else until we broke out onto a highway again.
We must have traveled straight for another ten minutes, which gave me plenty of time to figure out what I’d do if I caught him. He was failing, I could tell that much by his erratic driving. How long would it take for him to pass out? Maybe I’d wait until he was forced to stop and then take the envelope. Really, that’s all I had, which didn’t seem like much.
Now the traffic, the boulevards, the groves of oranges and dates, all looked the same until suddenly I realized that they had fallen away except for the occasional orchard. We were zipping on a highway straight into the desert. Don’t ask me why that scared me. Hell, I was chasing a brutal killer so what was a little sand and nothingness? Maybe it had something to do with the fact that my fuel gauge had settled on empty. I was literally running out of gas.
Now what? Though there were occasional cars on the highway, a grove or two, I saw no gas stations and I could hardly pull over for a fill, and to make matters worse, I realized I’d picked up a tail. Another motorcyclist, this one in a helmet, was rapidly picking up speed. Maybe it was one of them and I was like a victim sandwich wedged between two killers. Shit!
Meanwhile, bastard number one had veered off the road into an orange grove, this one of the unlit variety. Determined not to lose him, I followed him in. It was dark and the ground uneven and soon I realized that I could no longer see his taillights, which meant he was probably off his bike and trying to trap me. Either that or had finally bitten the dust. And now the light of that other bike was bouncing through the grove right for me.
I came to a screeching halt, my heart stomping wildly as I jumped off the bike and dashed toward the trees, pulling out my gun along the way. I knew that the first guy would be waiting for me somewhere ahead, if he was still alert, while the second probably planned to block my escape. I had no intention of falling into either trap. Turning slowly around, I tried listening for the first bastard but that damn second motorcyclist was making too much racket. Slipping behind the shadowy trees, I crouched and waited.
Cyclist number two zoomed in behind my bike, jumped off his own, and made his way into the grove. That’s when the shadow of the first guy staggered out from behind the palms and stumbled down the path toward him. If the first guy saw the second, he didn’t show it, but then he was so bent over he could barely stand. How hard would it be to kick that bastard to the ground and retrieve my envelope? Only now I had to contend with the second biker, who had pulled out a gun. So I’d wait until the armed cyclist got close enough for me to shoot him in the knee, wait until he was disabled, and then retrieve my envelope from the first guy.
Or that was the plan. My attention fixed on the second cyclist, I watched as he strode closer to the stumbling man. The wounded guy spied him at last and lurched to a halt. I fully expected the two to greet one another other but instead the guy in the helmet lifted his gun and shot. I watched in horror as the wounded guy crumpled to the ground. The killer flung off his helmet and called out my name.
Damn, damn, damn! I jumped up and cried, “What the hell did you do that for, Noel?”
“Phoebe, are you hurt?”
“No, I’m not hurt, damn you! Did you kill him?” I ran up to the fallen man sprawled in the dust and felt his neck for a pulse. Dead. “Of course you killed him. You always do. Why do you always kill people?” I turned on him, waving my bandaged hand in his direction. “Why couldn’t you have just wounded him like I did? You don’t need to kill them dead every time, Noel.”
He stared at me, stunned. “Hell, I should have invited him out for a beer, then—my bad. You kill them dead the first time, Phoebe. How many times have I told you that? If you just wound them, they’ll come back for you, madder than ever, like this one did. Are you responsible for that mess of his leg?”
“I’m a crack shot now, and yeah, I nailed him in the leg, but you got him right between the eyes, I see.” A clean shot. Hardly any blood. I wanted to upchuck into the bushes but kept it together.
“Always shoot to kill, Phoebe,” he said between his teeth.
“Never!” I cried. “That’s where we differ, on that and a million other things apparently. I will never shoot to kill unless I have to, got that? Even if they’re murdering, brutal bottom-feeders trying to roast me alive like this one did.”
“He tried to roast you alive? In that case, I’d kill him all over again, if I could.” He spoke softly now. “Okay, so this isn’t quite the welcome I’d expected from you. Good to see you again, too, Phoebe. What the hell is going on?”
“What’s going on?” Okay, so I admit I wasn’t exactly keeping it together just then. “You’re supposed to be thousands of miles away on the run, as usual, not here stalking me, messing with my plans, not to mention my head. I had this under control, Noel. Who invited you to the party?”
He tossed down his helmet. “Are you kidding me? That guy had a knife in his hand. I probably saved your life.”
“Look at him.” I pointed to the corpse. “Does he seriously look like he could have done me any harm? He was maybe five minutes away from collapsing. Now I can’t even question him, damn you. Did Rupert tell you where I was?”
“Rupert hasn’t made contact with me since Jamaica. I always keep an eye on you, Phoebe. I told you I would.”
“A tail on me, you mean. That has to end, Noel. I don’t want you or some hireling stalking me.”
He’d stopped, searching my face. “What’s wrong? Look, Phoebe, I forgive you for setting Interpol after me, okay? I knew you had to do something about Toby and I accept that it meant I’d get snarled up as collateral damage.”
“You weren’t just collateral damage. I told you in Jamaica that either you turned yourself in and let me cut you a deal or they’d drag you to prison with my blessings.”
His brows arched. “You seriously thought I’d agree to go to jail just so we could live some boring life together in the future?”
A knife couldn’t stab deeper. “That was the choice, yes: live on the run or spend a dreary future with me.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Yeah, you did. So you made your choice and I made mine.”
“Look, woman, I’ve risked my bloody neck for you again and again but I will never willingly be caged up like some goddamn animal!”
“Got it. I also get that you’ve fallen way beyond the Robin Hood of the Art World crap and landed squarely in the midden heap of cheapo-sleazo art thieves.”
“Cheapo-sleazo?” He swore with vehemence. “Haven’t improved the adjectives, I see.”
“It fits. Do you think I haven’t figured out that you made off with the most valuable pieces in Jamaica, including the genuine Raphael? Do you think I don’t know that you’ve become a crook of the worst kind, maybe the worst kind?”
“Since when did you become so damn self-righteous?”
“Since I realized what I really stood for and what I won’t stand for any
longer.”
“Well, hell, aren’t you the fierce little Pollyanna? I heard you were working with Interpol now. What are you doing for them, anyway—some kind of elite Barbie Doll agent chasing killers into the desert by yourself? I mean, seriously, are you kidding me? How dumb-ass is that? And what happened to your cheek?”
I swallowed hard, fighting back tears. There he was, my first real love, standing before me with his sharp-boned face tight with emotion and his eyes roiling pain, hurling insults at me. Even so, I knew it came from hurt and anger so I vowed to take the punches. “Forget the cheek. I want you to go away and never see me again. It’s over, do you understand? We’re not on the same side anymore. Don’t come tracking me down unless you want me to call Interpol on you all over again.”
“Whoa!” He lifted his hands. How I loved those hands once. Still did, maybe. Had to get over it. “Since when were we ever on the same side? We were just lovers caught in the line of fire, that’s all, but in the big picture, I’ll always be on your side, no matter what you say. Furthermore, we’re kind of related, remember, my father being your godfather? I’ll never be out of your life, so live with it.”
Now the tears were rolling down my face in earnest. “If you ever see Max again when I’m anywhere near, we’ll make like distant relatives. Otherwise, it’s over, believe me, though how can it be over when we never really started? You’d just drop into my life long enough for us to fall into one another’s arms—the once a year passion extravaganza—and then be gone. Talk about messing with my head. I’d stay longing for you for months afterward, hanging on for a postcard or a tip that you were off stealing something somewhere or at least still alive. That’s a relationship? That’s hell! When I said it was over, I meant it.” And then because I couldn’t just stand there blubbering, I added: “I was managing this by myself, by the way. Barbie’s learned to handle a gun, defend herself in martial arts, and kick ass when she needs to, starting with yours. Get with the times, bozo.”
He laughed, if you can call it that. “Bozo—got to love it. And how many degrees do you have, Miss Word Virtuoso?”
We stood facing each other, a dead man and a thousand light-years between us, while orange blossoms punched fragrance into the air and two motorcycles beamed light into the darkness. He looked haggard and pained. I felt broken and bruised. Emotion was draining from me faster than the dead man’s blood, leaving me cold and brutally alone.
I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. “I need to get something off him. He knifed a courier and stole it from me. That’s why I chased him.”
Crouching, I felt under the dead guy’s shirt where I could see the outline of an envelope. Pulling it out, I stuffed it under my own shirt. “Thank God it’s intact.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure. Nicolina couriered it from Venice.”
“Ah, yes, the killer countess. Do you want to go back to my place and check it out?”
“Your place? Do you have a flat around here or something?” My arms encompassed the desert, the grove.
He grinned. “Not exactly, but I do have a tent strapped to the back of the bike. That’s where I’ve been staying while here, which is why I look so ungroomed, in case you haven’t noticed. Haven’t had a shower in days.”
I was trying not to notice anything more about him than I had to. “I’m not going into a tent with you, Noel. I have to get back to the riad as soon as possible. Peaches will be frantic. Oh, hell, I’ve got to text her that I’m okay.”
I dug my phone out of my pocket and stared at the screen’s upper right-hand corner in dismay. “No signal!”
“We’re in a desert, remember?”
“This should be a satellite phone!”
“So maybe the satellite’s busy or something.”
I looked over at him as he wiped down my bike. “What are you doing?”
“Eliminating your fingerprints with bleach. I carry it everywhere in desert climes. That knife of his is probably covered in the courier’s blood, right?”
I nodded.
“So, I’ll leave that and wipe the courier’s bike clean, leave the killer’s. How many people saw you riding tonight?”
“Probably half of the Djamaa el Fna square but I had my scarf up.” Or part of the time.
“Clever. They’ll never clue in that a Westerner with a strand of flaming red hair sticking out might be you. At least they won’t find the bikes or the body until morning. Let them figure out what happened. With luck, you’ll be gone by then. Do you know who these guys are?”
“No, only that they’ve been tracking me since Venice—four of them, three men and a woman, now two men and a woman. I’m positive they killed Maria Contini.”
“I found some things out for you that you might find useful: turns out they’re all part of the same family with close ties here in Marrakech. Whatever they’re after, they’ve been hunting it for decades and, make no mistake, they think it’s rightfully theirs.”
“How much do you about this, anyway?”
“Enough. Where’s the courier’s body?”
“Outside the riad. If Peaches comes back and finds it, there will be trouble. She was going back into the medina to buy a knife and they already think she’s an anomaly.”
“If they find her with that knife, they’ll probably throw her in jail.”
“You were the second cyclist tailing me today.”
“Just watching your back, Phoebe. Come, we’d better get you to the riad. Climb on.”
Like I wanted to be that close to him after all that was said but I was beyond arguing. Instead, I fastened on his spare helmet and climbed on behind him, half sitting on the mound of his tent duffel, and wrapped my arms around his waist.
“I knew I’d get your arms around me tonight somehow,” he said as we zoomed off toward the highway.
18
It was a good thing that he couldn’t see my tears as we zipped toward Marrakech. If hearts were weighted, mine would have dragged that damned bike to a halt. And the man I wrapped my arms around was a lot thinner than I remembered. What had he been through during these months since he broke with his partner in crime—my brother—and escaped from Jamaica leaving all possibility of a decent life and the woman he supposedly loved behind? Whatever, he’d made his choice. Now all that was left for me was to heal the gaping wound after I’d made mine.
Twenty minutes later, the bike slowed as we approached the chicken courtyard. It was nearly eleven o’clock and at last the traffic was thinning around the city, leaving an unnerving quiet. I expected to see police cars hemming the lanes around the riad, anything except this deadly stillness.
At the end of the lane, deep in the shadows, he cut the engine and I dismounted.
“No body,” I whispered.
“Did you think they’d just leave it in the dust for people to walk around?” He climbed off and wheeled the bike behind a broken wall.
“Of course not.” I watched him unfasten his duffel and toss it over his shoulder. “I expected to see crime tape or something but there’s no indication that there was ever a murder here. What are you planning to do—pitch your tent in the courtyard?”
He grinned that devilish grin of his. “Of course not. I intend to go around to the back streets and scale the walls to your riad’s roof like I’ve been doing for the last two nights. It’s a four-foot climb from a tassel shop and then over a few tiled houses to the riad’s wall—damn simple. It’s worked out rather well as long as I go to roost after the staff closes up for the night.”
“That was you I heard up there?”
“I was trying to open a can of beans. Look, let me into your room long enough to take a shower tonight, will you? I promise not to threaten your virtue. Like you say, it’s over. No worries.”
“No worries—seriously? What if somebody sees you?”
“So? Is the place crawling with morality police or something? Tell them you picked up a local for a night of fun. I don’t care. I can pass as
Moroccan. Doesn’t matter since I’ll be gone by dawn.”
I thought over all the possible reasons not to oblige him but anything I came up with didn’t work. I’d really rather not have his tempting freshly steamed body anywhere near mine but all he wanted was a shower.
“Besides,” he added, “I’m there to keep an eye on you, and if you think you’ve beaten these guys because one’s down, you’re kidding yourself. They’re out there still and I’m guessing mad as hell. They want whatever’s hidden inside this place and obviously whatever’s up your shirt—I wouldn’t mind having some of that myself, but hands off, I get it. Trouble’s just begun.”
He did have a point. “Wait for me on the roof and I’ll come up as soon as the coast is clear. Can you unlock the door from the outside?”
He grinned. “Of course I can. I can pick anything open except maybe your rusted heart.”
So that was how it was going to be now—sniping quips? Well, fine. I pushed past him, relieved that he kept watching me right up until I had inserted the key and tapped in the code. Minutes later, I was inside the courtyard facing Peaches and the Merediths.
“Where were you, Ms. Martin? We’ve been worried to distraction!” June rounded on me and all I could see were those pink nails sailing through the air as if to squeeze my shoulder or pat my cheeks or stab my eyes out, take your pick. I stepped back. “We almost called the police.” She stopped. “What happened to your face?”
Peaches stepped between us. “We were worried. You hadn’t mentioned going out anywhere.” Her eyes were searching mine and I was trying to say that I’d explain all when I could. What must I look like—the tears, the filthy face, the bruised cheek?
I looked up at her. “I decided to take off on a bit of research.”
“Alone?” Joe said from behind her.
“Yes, alone.” I stepped away, heading for the stairs. “I’m not a kid. Anyway, I got mugged on my way back from the square. I’m fine, though.” I touched my cheek gingerly.
The Carpet Cipher Page 22